


Whom Fortune Favors

by misura



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Wat finds himself a new hobby and also a new shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whom Fortune Favors

"A true friend is a treasure beyond compare," Chaucer declared happily, swaying a little, and Wat would have fonged him for that, really he would've, except that one, there hadn't been any mention of sunrises or pearls or roses, and two, by the looks of it, someone'd already beaten Wat to the punch.

Several of them, it seemed, even. They appeared quite fit and more than willing to continue.

Wat was not a man given to taking pity on those less fortunate than he himself (or more fortunate, but that went without saying), but he had his pride; he saw no reason to waste his energy on other people's sloppy seconds. There was always tomorrow, after all, and the day after.

"No friend of yours, I am," he said, adding a "you sodding idiot," for good measure before allowing Chaucer to grab his shoulder to keep himself from falling down.

Chaucer nodded in mute agreement, which was unusual twice over. Wat worried about that a little, until one of the fellows whom Wat assumed to be responsible for some of Chaucer's shiny new bruises stepped forwards and demanded his shirt.

Things went a little bit hazy after that.

 

"Luck," Wat said stubbornly, two hours later. He'd lost his shirt and gained several new bruises as well as a tooth that felt like it might come out: a pleasantly enough spent hour if ever he'd spent one.

Chaucer shook his head. "Was it luck that led Odysseus to slay besieged Penelope's suitors? Mere chance that led Bellerophon to come across Andromache, as she lay helplessly chained to the rocks?"

"Are you calling me a woman?" Wat demanded. His arm felt tired, but he reckoned it'd be good for at least one good swing, and Chaucer'd always been a weakling.

"No." Chaucer chuckled. "I'm calling you a good friend. A veritable hero. Are you hurt very badly? Any scars? Should I go look for a doctor?"

"I want my fonging shirt back," Wat whined.

 

Unsurprisingly, Chaucer didn't manage to get Wat's shirt back. Roland did scrounge up a new one for him somewhere, a little less worn than his old one, even if this one had a hole in it in a place that suggested its previous owner might have met with an unfortunate ending.

"Not superstitious, are you?" Chaucer asked. "Although I must say, wonderful job at getting the blood stains out. I wonder what they used to accomplish that feat." He bent his head and sniffed.

Wat's right hand itched, but he'd been hanging around Chaucer for close to two months now; he'd learnt to let some of the little things go, the better to fong Chaucer for the big ones.

"I'm guessing it was soap," Wat said, just to show he knew a thing or two, too.

"Quite likely, quite likely." Chaucer straightened. His new shirt looked much like his old one. "Well, as they say, all ends well, that ends well."

 

Chaucer was ridiculously easy to follow; Wat had heard tales of people being followed all unawares, sometimes even by their worst enemies, who'd then find out all sort of damning secrets - he'd assumed a certain skill would be required, that there'd be a trick to it.

If there was, it appeared he'd mastered it without even trying.

He considered waiting, doing the same as before, but it seemed a little pointless and besides, it was cold and both Roland and Kate had warned him it might rain tonight. Now, a little rain had never hurt anybody, obviously, but Wat had heard that a lot of it might harm a fellow's health eventually, and he'd taken a bath mere two days ago, so really, there was nothing for it.

Chaucer turned his head once, as Wat walked in. There was a blink, and then a long, hard stare, and then someone was at Wat's elbow, yapping away in some language that sure as his Aunt Betty wasn't English, so Wat just shook his head.

"Wat," said Chaucer, and his nose was practically touching Wat's, which was not the usual state of things. (If any body part of Wat's was close to one of Chaucer's, it was usually his fist. His foot, sometimes, although kicking a man wasn't nearly as satisfying as hitting him in Wat's experience.)

Wat considered pretending this was a coincidence, but he was no actor; that was an honorless trade, and one his Ma, God rest her soul, would not at all have approved of him taking up, so instead, he opted for his usual response to a situation that looked like it might get a bit awkward.

 

"It's an addiction," Chaucer said, pressing a cold and only slightly dirty piece of cloth to his head. "An illness of the mind. A weakness not of the flesh, but of the spirit."

"You have a serious gambling problem," Kate translated. Wat reflected it was fortunate she had such an even temper - woman like her would likely as not be capable of bashing a man's head in.

Wat shook his head. "I like tansy cakes. Don't mean I'd give up the clothes off my back for them."

"Bakers tend not to be in the habit of extending credit," Chaucer said. "It'd be an unsound business decision on their part. There's no profit in it for them."

"Oh, and there's profit in chasing you down the street stark naked?"

"Well, you certainly seem to think so, don't you? Like a hound that's caught the scent of a hare."

"You - " Wat opened his mouth and closed it again. Kate and Roland eyed him with interest. "Pain!" Wat sputtered at last. "Blood and pain!"

"Been there, done that." Chaucer winced as he reapplied the cloth. "Got the bruises to prove it."

"I think it's kind of cute," Kate said. "You know, in an idiotic, typically male kind of way."

Wat clenched his teeth as Chaucer grinned at her.

 

"Why don't I teach you?" Chaucer said, holding up his left hand in what had better not be supposed to be a fist. "It'd be a way to while away a few hours of the afternoon."

"Teach me what?" Wat asked, half-suspicious and half-curious.

"A few simple games people may play with these." Chaucer opened his hand, revealing a pair of dice. "We won't be playing for money, obviously - you being a novice and all."

"If not for money, what then?" Wat supposed he might give Chaucer a good fonging if he lost - or not give him one if he happened to win, but the prospect felt a little dull. You didn't fong a man by mutual agreement; it had to come naturally. Spontaneous-like.

Chaucer sighed. "Oh, must we play for anything at all? Why not for simple pleasure?"

"Pleasure?" Wat wasn't an idiot; he knew what people meant when they said _that_. "What, like kissing and stuff? Winner gets a - " Kate didn't seem to be around. Still, Wat decided to play it safe. "Well, you know. Your mouth, my ... " He gestured vaguely.

Chaucer smiled and rattled the dice. "Scared?"

 

"Where have the two of you been all afternoon, then?" Roland asked.

Wat's knees felt a trifle unsteady, the way they got sometimes when he overindulged in beer after he hadn't eaten for three days. He hoped it didn't show.

"More importantly: what happened to your shirt?" Kate said.

"Ah," Chaucer said. "My apologies - I believe that one may be mine."


End file.
